My Ex-Boss will always be remembered as a tall stream of black-on-black. He resembled a young Hugh Hefner, but with more windswept, almost emo-ish hair.
For a time he was married to a cheery English blonde with a broad West County accent.
The marriage was a very honest arrangement - he could be with an attractive 19 year old (and possibly other attractive young women), she could stay in a country she preferred, get naked on-camera occasionally for income, and study tourism.
Whilst Cheery Blonde was nearly twenty years younger, that didn't stop them getting along well and being jolly good mates. Even if you marry for convenience, you've still got to like the person.
Ex-Boss lived a comfortable life. Making Internet porn brought in a lot of money - he owned a large Victorian home in an expensive suburb, drove a sporty-yet-subtle RX8 and had all the Eames furniture a design boffin like himself could ever want.
But one morning, just after the coffee run, we had an odd exchange.
"Dee, you don't think I look... gay, do you?", he said, holding his long black. He stared at me intently, then looked away and took a gulp from his cup. I noticed how his hair swished boyishly. He habitually flicked it away from his face, his head doing this little 'woosh' thing.
I had to lie... quickly.
"No, you don't look like a man who likes men like that. Sometimes androgynous, maybe, but in a David Bowie kind of way." I knew Ex-Boss liked Bowie. A man of his generation, who thought himself as part of the Zeitgeist couldn't not like Bowie. Right?
"Cool. Okay. Thanks." The tall black stream walked away. Back to his desk, setting himself down.
The monitor's cold light reflected upon his angular features and his full head of gorgeous hair.
It wasn't his fault his hands were graceful, or that he dressed well and smelled clean, or used complete sentences with an educated tone.
He was a man-yet-not-a-man, he could pull most items apart and see how it was made, then put it back together again. He loved fixing mechanical items, he loved old factories and abandoned, once-useful places.
But he didn't like the football, and he didn't have any man friends he could invite over for a barbecue and watch sport with.
He didn't look like a man that made porn - he looked like an architect. The type of architect who didn't like engineers. Plus, he was amazingly bitchy and grumpy at times... in a terrible PMS-ish, snapping, sarcastic kind of way.
His world was made of fading light, Adobe products, long hours and beautiful young women who felt unnaturally comfortable around him.
It was this comfort that caused some to ask me, "Is he gay?"
"No", I'd reply, "He's just a bit like David Bowie".